Data Synchronization
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: *The Arrow's problems didn't end when they removed the bullet from his shoulder. But that's okay, because Felicity is perfectly happy to help him solve those, too.* A side story in the "Technical Assistance" universe that takes place between after Chapter 25 "Emergency Drive Repair." Reading through the rest of the series first is highly recommended.


**Title: Data Synchronization  
>Word Count: 4222<strong>

**Notes: **There were a lot of unresolved... things in the last chapter of TA, so I thought it would be nice to clear those up before charging onward into a new plot line. :P And, more Arrow/Felicity interaction is just a bonus. ;) I hope you enjoy! Thanks in advance for reading, commenting and/or reviewing! :)

And, again, thanks to ihatepeas for being awesome enough to fix a very difficult paragraph in this side story. Without her, the ending would have paled in comparison. ;)

* * *

><p>Felicity thinks she could spend the rest of her life like this, her arms wrapped around the Arrow's waist, his at the small of her back. She closes her eyes as her nose presses against the soft fabric that attaches the hood to the suit, and, though he doesn't particularly smell like anything except the stuffy, underground smell of the basement, she doesn't really mind. After all, she's pretty sure that weight on her head is his chin, and she rather likes the idea of his arms around her so tightly.<p>

She tries to hide her frown as the Arrow pulls out of the hug because it's ridiculous for her to think it would last forever. But still, he nearly died, and there's a very special amount of comfort from being hugged by _the Arrow_. After all, most of the bad guys in Starling City check their closets every night for the emerald archer, and so she thinks anywhere with him is probably safe.

And, maybe anywhere without him doesn't feel as safe anymore.

He doesn't completely pull away, though, like she expects. Instead, he holds her at arm's length, staring down at her, those piercing eyes boring into her yet again. "Diggle told me you didn't want to know who I am," he says quietly, and she blinks at the almost-question, surprised he'd confront her about it—but not surprised that Diggle mentioned it. The man seems to be loyal in the extreme, and she thinks it would probably be worth mentioning, under the circumstances.

"I already know who you are," she answers, smiling when he tenses as she expects, "even if I don't know your name." He starts breathing again, and she bites her lip to hide a smile. "It doesn't matter to me who you are under that hood because I know who you are when you wear it." She touches his hand, the one still on her waist. "When you want to tell me, I want to know. But I don't want to know because you're hurt—I want to know because _you_ want me to know." She frowns at her wording. "If I'm even making any sense at all." She rubs at her face. "I haven't slept in twenty-four hours, so I don't even know that this isn't a dream anymore." She frowns, her mouth running without bypassing her brain. "Of course, this is sort of a _milder_ version of my dreams featuring you. Violence, check; almost dying, check; but we seem to be missing my _very_ active imagination because my fantasies are usually more vivid."

He chuckles at her rambling end to that speech, and her face heats as her words catch up to her. "As much as I'd like to hear more about your vivid imagination," he starts, and she thinks that blush might have spread to her toes, "I think you probably need another set of clothes." She frowns, raising an eyebrow in question, and he hesitates before explaining in a whisper, "You're covered in blood."

She looks down at her shirt, surprised to find he's right. The powder blue henley she's wearing has a vivid red stain down the front of it, and she'll probably have to burn it. Her skirt is black, but it has a dark spot, too, and she doesn't think it's salvageable, either. Fortunately, her purple peacoat has survived fine, hanging from a chair in the basement and away from the carnage. She opens her mouth and no words come out, but the Arrow saves her from speaking. "I have some spare clothes in the bathroom," he offers, putting a hand between her shoulder blades and guiding her toward a door at one side of the basement area. "They won't fit well, but at least they'll be clean." Almost musing, he adds, "Maybe when you come back, you can bring a spare for yourself."

Despite the pressure at her back, she stops immediately. "I can come back?" she asks, her voice carrying a little too loud. At a more normal volume, she continues, "Like, I'm allowed to be part of Team Arrow and share in duties in the super-secret spy lair? And actually _belong_ to this team and not be the random IT girl you visit every now and again?"

He chuckles. "You saved my life, Felicity—I think that makes you part of this team. But _never_ call us Team Arrow again," he says flatly. "And we're not spies." His eyes turn dark again, and his voice takes that odd tone again that he seems to reserve only for her. (Part of her wishes that she could hear it _without_ the synthesizer.) "You've _always_ belonged to this team—from the moment you helped me with that laptop." He tilts her chin up so he can look at her, and to make sure she looks at him. "And you have _never_ been a random IT girl." The hand moves to cup her cheek, the leather cold against it. "Not to me."

He studies her a moment longer, seeming to gauge her expression, but then he frowns and releases her. The Arrow guides her into the bathroom, and she's surprised to find it complete with a shower. He ignores it for a cabinet against the wall, opening it to pull out a set of clothes for her: a black v-neck t-shirt and a pair of generic gray sweatpants. "Feel free to use the shower, if you want," he offers, and then he leaves her, shutting the door behind him.

She takes a moment to lock it, mainly out of habit, and catches sight of herself in the small mirror over the sink. She looks tired and frazzled, she observes, but then she sees the blood in her hairline and smudged across her cheek and decides that maybe a shower is a very good idea.

After using the generic bar of soap and the bland shampoo that doesn't really smell like anything, she dresses, unsurprised to find the clothes several sizes too big—just like the shirt she has at home that belongs to him. She has to roll the band of the pants down several times (and maybe the elastic cuffs up a few times), and the v-shaped neckline of the shirt dips down _way_ too low for her liking, and she has to pull it back on her shoulders some to prevent flashing her bra. Unsure what to do with her old clothes, she carries them out with her after slipping her feet back into her panda flats.

The Arrow and Diggle are speaking in hushed tones, so she tries not to eavesdrop or disturb them, the uncomfortable feeling of wet hair down her back making her return to the elastic on the gurney. Next to it, she's pleasantly surprised to find her purse, which she didn't carry into the building, since she was carrying half of the Arrow at the time. She supposes either the Arrow or Digg was considerate enough to set it on the gurney, and she doesn't know which image makes her laugh more.

Sighing, she places her clothes on the gurney to pull her hair up, watching the two men talk in the part of the operation that seems reserved for training, judging by the mats and punching bags set up. She manages to pull the wet mess of hair into a bun at the nape of her neck, watching as the Arrow's eyes lock around Diggle. The way he's staring makes her face burn, especially since he doesn't exactly seem to be looking at her face. It's only afterward that she realizes that the shirt's neckline has sagged dangerously low again—as has his gaze, interestingly enough—and she flushes before pulling on her peacoat over in the corner with the pretense of being cold.

With nothing to do, she checks her phone, surprised to find three missed calls and four new text messages, frowning as she wonders why someone was calling her after midnight. "Something wrong?" the Arrow asks, suddenly across from her, and really, he should stop doing that if he wants her to keep helping him.

"No, but I've apparently been missed," she says, frowning as she taps the button for more detail. "Oh, it's just Barry," she mutters, glad it isn't someone who would want to know why she wasn't picking up—everyone knows she carries that phone everywhere. The Arrow smiles at her blatant dismissal, apparently finding humor in it, and she waves a hand. "Well, Barry's important because he's like my brother, but you know what I meant." Then she brings up the text messages and frowns at him. "Apparently I need to check a news feed, and I don't have a signal. Please tell me you have wi-fi down here."

"I just set up an Internet service account yesterday," he answers sarcastically. She looks up at him with a raised eyebrow at the attitude, only to find the harsh clip of his tone softened by the slight smile.

"You know, the sass isn't helpful," she remarks with a smile of her own. "I can piggyback off of Verdant's wi-fi hotspot, but I'm not doing this every time—I feel like I'm stealing from Oliver." A few seconds later, she pulls up the link that Barry sent her, and she frowns as she reads the text. "Barry was watching the news, and he found that the police have mentioned getting a sample of your blood from the scene."

His answer is immediate and confident, as though he already knows the answer to his question. "Can you do anything about that?" Again, his unwavering faith in her is a little scary, but she likes that he's aware of just how good she is. But she's also terrified that the day will come that she can't do what he asks of her.

She frowns at the empty computer table. "Okay, buster, that's it," she answers as she fishes out her own laptop from her bag, "the next time I come back, I'm bringing a desktop unit with me for down here. I have a few at the house that would be _perfect_." After setting up at the designated computer desk that, sure enough, lacks a computer, she slides into the desk chair and starts typing away.

"Are you going to hack a police database?" he asks from behind her, breath fanning against her ear as he watches her work over her shoulder. A shiver that has nothing to do with the chill of the lair tears through her, and suddenly working with him in such close quarters doesn't seem like such a good idea. She remembers what happened the last time they had a quiet moment together in peace, and, well, she's not sure she wants a repeat—down here, at least.

But maybe she wouldn't mind an opportunity to redo that almost-kiss from a few weeks ago, at a later date.

"Technically," she answers easily, drawing out the word, "it was hacking _once_, but not really at this point. I made a back door here several years ago, so it's more like duplicating someone's key and using it to break in." She frowns. "Wow, does anyone else think my metaphors get creepier when I'm tired?"

The chuckle comes from Diggle this time, and she thinks she could get used to the three of them working down here. A few keystrokes later, she's able to tell them, "It looks like there was a mix-up in the evidence locker, and the blood sample was accidentally ordered destroyed." She swivels around to face both men with her best show of false innocence. "You know, they should really be more careful with their evidence removal requests. Paper is the best way to go with bureaucracy—less chance of mishaps like this." She shakes her head. "They really should have hired a consultant—I could have told them that."

"I'm very glad you didn't," the Arrow answers in that synthesized voice, somehow still able to let the gratitude seep into his tone despite the unnatural, robotic sound. "I was careless. I would have been in jail tonight without you." He hesitates before adding, "Or worse."

And that's really the problem, Felicity decides. Tonight was too much of a close call on so many counts, and she doesn't like relying on chance to keep them both safe. She's too analytical for that, and she surmises the Arrow is, too. To answer sincerely would remind her of that unthinkable fear of losing him, so she decides that maybe she should answer a little more flippantly. "Well, Saphira's fond of you, and I don't want to see her upset because you aren't careful," she quips, shrugging. Her efforts are rewarded with a chuckle, and she smiles. More seriously, she continues, "It's the least I could do."

Suddenly, a yawn tears through her violently as the adrenalin rush wears off, and his hand lands on her shoulder. "Let's get you home," he decides finally, helping her to her feet. She goes to return her laptop to her bag and take it with her, and he adds, "Leave those clothes—I'll dispose of them for you."

When she turns, she realizes that he has a set of keys in his hand—_motorcycle _keys, if she had to guess. "I can drive myself home," she insists immediately, hooking her bag over her shoulder. "And, besides, I have this bag."

"I have room for it under the seat," is his answer, and she sighs because she probably can't get away with it now. She doesn't want to ride on that damn thing when she's so tired, even though she admits she probably shouldn't be driving, either.

"But my car—" she tries, hating the whiny tone her voice is taking in her fatigue.

"Will be waiting in your space tomorrow morning," he answers, his tone informing her that he's not going to let this argument go. Knowing she isn't going to win and too tired to argue with him, she sighs, walking up to him.

"Fine," she agrees, handing him her keys, and he places his hand on her shoulder, leading her up the stairs in front of him. He stops to relay something to Diggle in a hushed tone, and the other man nods before he's guiding her up the stairs again.

The motorcycle is tucked against the back wall of Verdant, and, sure enough, her bag fits nicely under the seat, once he removes his helmet from the area. "Thank you," he offers abruptly, not offering her the helmet.

"For what?" she asks, picking at an invisible thread on her peacoat. She can't look at him when he uses _that_ voice, the one that's too sincere, too intense, and too much trouble.

He tilts her head up, cupping her face, from a closer distance than he ever has before. The last time they were this close, he tried to kiss her, and she doesn't think she's ready for that after all of tonight's events. After all, they've had quite the emotional roller coaster without adding romance to the mix. "For so many things," he answers quietly. "But thank you for letting me take you home—I need you to be safe." Only then does he offer her the helmet.

"I know the feeling," she answers as she takes it from him, "but _I'm_ not the one who was shot tonight." She frowns. "You don't have to do this, you know—you probably need to go back to wherever you live and rest before you charge into action tomorrow night." She frowns as she thinks about it. "Or tonight, I guess, now that I think about it."

He chuckles. "I can still go home after this and rest," he answers, "_after_ I take you home." His gloved hand runs a line under her eye, where there's probably a huge, dark circle. "Maybe I could suggest the same remedy to you. Take a long weekend away from work—both here and at Queen Consolidated. Starling City won't burn if you need a night off—not in a night, at least." It sounds like a joke—a rarity in itself—but it sends ice down her spine because it reminds her of her conversation with Oliver earlier this evening. Still, she thinks it's coincidence and she reminds herself how paranoid she gets when she's tired. With a hand on her shoulder, he adds, "And you don't need to worry about me, Felicity."

"Somebody needs to," she answers as she pulls the helmet over her head, and he climbs on the motorcycle. "Might as well be me." She manages not to stumble as she situates herself behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and praying she doesn't fall asleep. Surprisingly, she's able to keep her eyes open this time, taking in the sleeping city sprawled out around her. Maybe motorcycles aren't so bad, she admits.

When he isn't showing off, at least.

* * *

><p>Felicity turns her key into her door, surprised to find the light on when she enters. Her confusion increases when Saphira greets her, and she <em>knows<em> Saphira was safely locked in the spare bedroom this morning. Then she sees the dark, spiky head of hair and breathes a sigh of relief, taking a moment to drop her coat on the hanger by her door.

Barry is sprawled across the couch, his spare key to her apartment in hand as though he barely managed to enter before falling asleep. Of course he'd come by to check on her; she's usually so good about answering his texts. A new wave of guilt hits her, but she reminds herself that she'd _literally_ faced a life-or-death situation tonight.

With a fresh round of mischief after all the playful banter tonight, she kicks the bottom of the couch, and Barry jolts awake with wide eyes. "Don't you know it's rude to drop by uninvited?" she asks.

His eyes immediately fall on the clock on the wall. "Felicity, where the hell have you been? And, more importantly, why are you just getting home at two-thirty in the morning? I called you three times and you didn't answer. I thought something had happened to you. And it was important—I mean, the Arrow could be in some trouble, and—" He stops abruptly as he finally takes in her appearance. "I'm guessing you didn't wear that to work today. In fact, I'm guessing that those clothes aren't even yours."

She points at him, slipping off her shoes. "Good guesses. Correct on both counts," she answers dryly. "Sorry I didn't answer, but I get, like, zero reception in the lair." He blinks twice at the description, so she explains, "The reason they had new evidence on the Arrow was because he was shot tonight by Moira Queen—nearly died." She drops onto the sofa by him in exhaustion, resting her head on his shoulder.

Barry's arm wraps around her, and she's grateful for the attempt at comfort—even though comfort isn't exactly his strong suit. "Are you okay?" he asks carefully. "Is _he_ okay?"

"Yeah, we're both fine," Felicity answers. "I just had to drive him to the lair, and his buddy and I patched him up." She motions to her clothes and her wet hair. "The bullet nicked an artery and he was bleeding all over the place. That's why I'm wearing this—my clothes didn't survive. Thank God for hot showers, though." She pokes him in the shoulder. "But, don't worry—he survives to be the object of your platonic guy-crush." It earns her a pinch on the arm, and she sits up, stretching. "But we'll talk in the morning. "The guest room is probably covered in fur, but you're not a guest—you can make your own bed."

His eyes drift closed as he stretches out on the couch again. "That's alright, Sherly," he says with a partial smile. "I'm comfortable here."

She shrugs. "Suit yourself," she replies, before heading back into her bedroom, hoping for the sweet gloriousness of her bed, flipping the light on to find her pajamas. She screams when she sees someone in the room waiting for her, and then she pokes a finger into his chest—on the right side, away from the bullet wound. "What is _wrong_ with you?" she demands. "First you show up in my car, then you nearly bleed to death, and _then_ you drive me back here on that damned motorcycle! Haven't you scared the hell out of me _enough_ for one night?"

Before he can respond, Barry pokes his head around the corner, followed by a barking, not-so-shy Saphira who makes her way immediately to her favorite vigilante. "Hey, Sherly, is everything—?" He stops as he sees the Arrow standing there. "Holy fishsticks," he mutters under his breath, gripping the door frame with wide eyes.

Felicity sighs, motioning back and forth between the two. "Barry, Arrow; Arrow, Barry," she introduces tiredly. Her best friend opens his mouth, and she holds up a hand to silence him. "Barry, you can ask for an autograph later." She turns back to the Arrow. "Now, what are you doing here?"

He hesitates, his eyes flicking between her and Barry. "I noticed your lights were on when I left the garage," he explains. "I thought someone had broken in." He hesitates, and suddenly this exchange is awkward—and the only difference she can figure is Barry's presence.

"The only criminal currently in my home is you," she answers with a smile, and it earns her a chuckle. "Barry thought something had happened when I didn't answer, so he drove back from Central City." She crosses her arms, rolling her eyes. "Because he's apparently just as overprotective as you are." She bites her lip. "Thanks, though, for doubling back to make sure I wasn't being murdered or something."

This time his mouth turns into a scowl at her flippant wording, as though the thought is sobering for him. His hand falls to her shoulder, and she thinks he might have touched her face instead had Barry not been there. "That will _never_ happen," he says firmly, and she's _very_ convinced he means it.

He turns away from her, as if he's going to leave, but she leans forward to catch him, frowning when she feels cold air against her breastbone, informing her that the shirt's neckline has slipped again. "Hey, I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I didn't mean to be so cavalier about it, especially with tonight's close call." It was in poor taste, and she feels like a hypocrite since she'd just yelled at him about being blasé earlier in the night.

His hand does go to her face this time, and she knows that all is forgiven. "I know," he says gently. His eyes flick downward and then to Barry once more, and the corners of his mouth twitch upward ever so slightly when his eyes meet hers again. Then he's leaning over her slightly. She almost thinks he's going to kiss her cheek, but then she feels his breath at her ear as he whispers, "That shirt is going to fuel _my_ imagination." Felicity is already certain of what he's implying, but a quick look downward confirms that the neckline is uncomfortably low, dipping down to flash powder blue fabric.

She can feel herself go crimson from her hairline to her toes, uncertain of which thought is causing her embarrassment: that she admitted to dreaming about him in a less than platonic way, or that _he_ admitted pretty much the same to _her_. Either way, she shoves him toward the window with one hand while the other clutches at the neck of the shirt. "Stop teasing me and get out of here before _I_ shoot you," she snaps hotly, earning herself a rare smile. She stops him before he leaves, though, grabbing his right shoulder to avoid hurting the other further. "And I mean it—go home and rest before you rip those stitches out. _Again_."

He sighs. "I told you not to worry about me," he reminds her, his voice taking on that growly quality that he only seems to reserve for frustration. And she has to admit, it's kind of amusing that he thinks she'd do something just because he said it in that definitive tone.

"And I told you that someone needs to," she retorts firmly, and he shakes his head, already learning that he's not going to win two arguments in a row. He may be the city's savior, but Felicity thinks that winning two arguments in one night could make him arrogant. So, really, she's doing a public service.

He shakes his head before slipping out the window with yet another instance of, "Goodnight, Felicity."

She turns to find Barry looking a little dazed as he hangs onto the door frame, and she thinks for a moment he's going to faint. Then his eyes narrow. "Do you two always—?" He makes a motion between the two of them, as if unsure how to put it into words.

Felicity knows _exactly_ what he means, though. "Pretty much," she responds, shrugging, but then she decides that's really not true. "Actually, I think it's usually worse."

"First a stalker lacrosse player, then a womanizing billionaire, and now a nameless, faceless vigilante," he says, shaking his head. "I'll say this, Sherly—you sure know how to pick them."

She responds by throwing a pillow at his head.


End file.
